


Sonho Dourado

by Project7723



Category: Friday Night Lights, Friday Night Lights RPF
Genre: Angst, Characters based on real people, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:33:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25995292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Project7723/pseuds/Project7723
Summary: A few minutes pass, silent save for the whispering of Mike's sobs. The locker room has grown strangely hushed around them. Then Coach's voice comes again, his words washing over the boy like a wave. "Mike? Tonight you were perfect. Do you hear me, son? You were perfect."Oneshot. Based on the 2004 film. Takes place directly after Permian's loss to Carter. (If I'm posting this in the wrong place, feel free to redirect me to the proper neighborhood.)
Relationships: Mike Winchell & Coach Gary Gaines





	Sonho Dourado

Mike Winchell shivers as the cool air of the locker room combines with the sweat evaporating from his back and shoulders to raise goosebumps on his skin. The smooth hands of the EMT prodding at his ribs are cold, too. He tells Mike that some of them are probably cracked, several are definitely bruised, but none are broken. Mike figures that's good news, though he doubts the pain could be much worse if they had been broken.  
  
But his ribs are not the primary source of his pain. He finds it increasingly difficult to breathe, and he knows that his busted up ribs and the sheer number of times he's had the wind knocked out of him tonight must have something to do with that, but those things are nothing compared to the lead he feels in his heart, his lungs, his gut. The lead is knowledge, and it crushes him, suffocating and squeezing. He thinks it might kill him. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe.  
  
He hears a voice, but it is distant, flooded, folding in and out with the muffled sounds of a locker room full of teenagers and coaches. He takes a deep breath, wincing as his ribs expand, praying that some of the lead will be released with his exhale. It isn't. Maybe it's not lead. Maybe it's tar, sticky and thick and coating his insides. The tar is knowledge. The knowledge is that he has failed those who were depending on him.  
  
There is the voice again, now joined by another. He feels like he's underwater, like he's drowning. He can't breathe, he can't—  
  
There is a hand on his, now, warm and rough and calloused. He opens his eyes.  
  
Coach Gaines is kneeling before him, eyes clouded with something—almost sadness, not quite. Concern, maybe. His mouth is moving. Mike blinks and tries to focus; when Coach speaks, you listen.  
  
The sounds of the locker room come rushing back in like a burst dam and he anchors on the voice of his coach.  
  
"...with me? Mike. Can you hear me, son?"  
  
"I can hear you."  
  
Coach's eyes flicker with something else, and he nods. The hand on Mike's squeezes a little. "Bill here needs to tape up your ribs. You think you can let him do that?"  
  
Mike hadn't realized he was hugging himself, arms twined tightly around his middle. He lets go, slowly. He is beginning to feel stiff, and sudden movements mean pain.  
  
"Good. That's good, son." Coach's face pinches as his eyes rake over Mike's torso. Mike hasn't bothered to look at the bruises yet, but he knows they're bad. Chavo had had to help him out of his jersey and pads before the EMT—Bill?—could look at him. He couldn't lift his arms over his head.  
  
"You sure he's okay, Bill?" Coach doesn't look at Bill; his eyes are still on Mike's skin.  
  
"Yeah. He'll be mighty sore for a while, but the bruises make him look worse off than he is. Give him a month or two. He'll be good as new."  
  
Coach shakes his head, tearing his eyes away from Mike's chest to look at his face. "How are you feeling?"  
  
Mike shrugs and regrets it instantly. "I'm okay, Coach." The lie tastes like bile.  
  
Coach huffs incredulously and straightens, moving out of Mike's field of view. Mike feels him come to a stop somewhere behind him.  
  
"Okay, son. Let's get you fixed up, here." Bill takes Coach's place in front of Mike, tearing off a length of tape as he speaks. "Sit up straight, now."  
  
Mike grits his teeth and does his best. His breaths are making a funny sound, rough and wheezy. Bill anchors one end of the tape to his skin and he bites back a cry, but some sound must have escaped anyway, because then the warm, rough hand is back, this time on his shoulder. Another shiver runs through him. He draws strength from the touch of his coach, but at the same time it feels like the lead—or tar—has doubled in weight with his presence, claiming Mike's insides and squeezing them tight. He clenches his eyes closed once more and his jaw follows suit. He wonders if this feeling will ever leave him, or if the old guys in Odessa were right—if this, _now_ , is his only legacy. If he'll be remembered only as the quarterback who couldn't lead Permian to win State, who let down his team, his town, his coach—if he'll remember himself that way.  
  
 _Odessa is football country…  
  
Are you gonna take us to __S_ _tate?  
  
Make no mistake—we are in the business of protecting this town. The stakes couldn't be higher. Can you be perfect?_

  
_...A lot of pressure for a seventeen-year-old kid. You think you can handle it?_

_Gentlemen, the hopes and dreams of an entire town are riding on your shoulders. You may never matter again in your life as much as you do right now.  
  
Are you gonna get a scholarship?  
_  
A hot tear escapes and he swipes at it angrily.  
  
 _Yes, Ma._  
  
His chest heaves, and Bill pulls his hands away. "Sit still, son."  
  
Coach squeezes his shoulder, and Mike wishes he wouldn't because it makes it that much harder to hold himself together. He bites his lip, hard, and his fists clench at his sides, nails digging into his palms as he fights for control.  
  
"Alright." Bill stands and begins to repack his things. "That's about all I can do for you, Mike. How's your chin feelin'?"  
  
Mike is surprised by how steady his voice is when it comes out. "It's okay."  
  
Bill chuckles as he hoists his bag. "You've got a chatty one here, Coach. Liable to talk your ear off if you're not careful."  
  
"Don't I know it. Thank you, Bill."

  
Bill nods and walks off, and Mike half expects Coach to do the same, but he doesn't. He just plants his other hand on Mike's right shoulder and squeezes again.  
  
Mike can feel himself crumbling. He stiffens, desperately tries to grab at the threadbare seams of his emotions and pull them together, but he isn’t fast enough and a faint sob flutters free. Panic builds in him like a swarm of flapping wings and he scrubs at his eyes as Coach's hands leave his shoulders. He desperately tries to regain control before the reprimand he knows is coming.  
  
But it doesn't come. Instead of harsh words there is a soft touch on his knees, and then Coach is kneeling before him, eyes gleaming with emotion Mike is not used to seeing directed at him. _"I am so proud of you, son."  
_  
The seams fall away from Mike's scrabbling fingers and another sob, this time loud and harsh, wracks itself from his lungs as Coach pulls him into an embrace. Mike buries his face in a shoulder clad in Permian black as strong arms wrap, warm and firm, around him. Coach doesn't shush Mike or tell him to get control of himself, he just holds him tight as he shudders with sobs and the pain the sobs bring, whispering words Mike has ached to hear all his life into his sweaty hair. Mike clings to the words as if they are his lifeline. He desperately wants to believe them, but can’t quite bring himself to as the shame threatens to overwhelm him and drag him under currents of lead. His fingers twist and clench in Coach's sweater, holding on for dear life.  
  
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." He repeats the words over and over again as he had done before, not so many weeks ago.  
  
"Mike. No, son. You have nothing to be sorry for. You fought so hard tonight." Coach's voice is rough, his breath hot on Mike's scalp.  
  
Mike's voice is a wail, thready and anguished and cut with sobs. "But wasn't enough! We still lost! I wasn't enough!"  
  
"Listen to me, son. People don't seem to realize this, but football isn't about winning. It's not. Mike, if you boys had won tonight, I could not be any more proud of you than I am right now. Do you hear me?" His tone grows in conviction as Mike's sobs come faster and harder. _"I could not be any more proud of you than I am right now."_ Coach’s hand is firm and reassuring on Mike’s head, carding once, twice, through his hair, then holding it tight against his shoulder _._ "Tonight you led those boys in a war against an army twice our size, twice our strength. They watched you take hit after hit and keep on getting up again, and it gave them the courage to do the same. Tonight, you fought your hardest. Tonight, you gave it everything you had. That's what this game is about."  
  
A few minutes pass, silent save for the whispering of Mike's sobs. The locker room has grown strangely hushed around them. Then Coach's voice comes again, his words washing over the boy like a wave. "Mike? Tonight you were perfect. Do you hear me, son? You were perfect."  
  
They sit that way for a long time, Coach running a hand up and down the goosebumps on Mike's back, mindful of the bruises, as Mike weeps into his shoulder. The lead—or tar, it doesn't matter anymore—is lighter now, outshone by a big, bright sunburst in his chest. The sunburst is knowledge, and the knowledge is that he has brought someone pride. It's not a feeling Mike is accustomed to, but it's not one he is likely to forget.


End file.
